Gaily the constable kissed the book,
And said with a smile, as his oath he took,
“It’s only the facts as I mean to state”—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.
Then the constable told the strangest tales,
How the chap in the dock was the Prince of Wales,
And he’d seen him begging at Albert Gate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.
He had watched the Prince till he saw him try
The pockets of ladies walking by,
And pass the swag to a swell-mob mate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.
Then the constable added he’d seen the Queen,
Who said what a handful her boy had been,
And she guessed that the gallows would be his fate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.
Then the constable said when he ran Wales in,
He swore and struggled and kicked his shin,
And bit off his ear and a portion ate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.
The Prince he called for his royal mamma,
And into the box went Victoria;
She proved an alibi full of weight—
“You’re not on your oath!” yelled the magistrate.
“The case is proved,” to the Prince said he;
“You deserve six months, but I’ll give you three.”
“I’ll write to the Times,” cried the Prince irate—
“Take him away!” shrieked the magistrate.
The Queen went out of the court in tears,
As the Bench indulged in some parting sneers;
And skilly and toke was the Prince’s fate—
“It’ll do him good,” said the magistrate.
But Parliament took up the Prince’s case,
And the young P.C., with a scared, white face,
Read out to his pal the big debate—
“It’s awfully hot,” said the magistrate.
Then the constable said, “It’s the blooming Press
As has settled our nice little games, I guess;
We’d better resign, as the row’s so great”—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.